


Mended

by lurkinglurkerwholurks



Series: Whumptober 2019 [8]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth is the Best, Angst, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Bruce Wayne is Trying, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Gen, Ghosts of Robins past (but metaphorically... sort of), Hurt Tim Drake, Protective Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake is Robin, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2019, no copyediting we typo like mne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-23 21:49:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21088373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lurkinglurkerwholurks/pseuds/lurkinglurkerwholurks
Summary: Luckywas the verdict. Lucky. Tim had beenluckythat the damage hadn’t been more severe,luckythat there likely wouldn’t be permanent limited functionality.Luckythat Bruce had dragged him to Leslie in time. Just like he had beenluckythat he hadn’t been murdered on the streets of Gotham.Bruce didn’t think there was much luck in any of that. If Tim had beenlucky, he never would have gotten tangled up with Batman at all.A follow-up to "Busted."





	Mended

**Author's Note:**

> Had to go back and add this to Busted. This is the comic that started this whole mess: https://audreycritter.tumblr.com/post/187954275158/timetrees-bruce-being-a-dumbass-and-tim-saving

_Lucky_ was the verdict. Lucky. Tim had been _lucky_ that the damage hadn’t been more severe, _lucky_ that there likely wouldn’t be permanent limited functionality. _Lucky_ that Bruce had dragged him to Leslie in time. Just like he had been _lucky_ that he hadn’t been murdered on the streets of Gotham. 

Bruce didn’t think there was much luck in any of that. If Tim had been _lucky_, he never would have gotten tangled up with Batman at all.

Bruce’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, leather gauntlets creaking. He had tried to leave the room when Leslie had set the arm, still too angry and too nauseated over what might have been to want to risk staying. Instead, Leslie had forced him to help.

“You need to learn how to do this in case I’m not around.”

The logic had been sound, insurmountable. So Bruce had stayed, towering over Tim like the craggy, stone-faced gargoyle that he was. Tim had bit his lip as Leslie applied the local anesthetic, then cried silently as she and Bruce had coaxed the shoulder back into its joint. Bruce could still feel the awful swell and click of it under his palms.

Bruce had left the room immediately after, stalking out into the hall to grip his knees and suck in deep, shaking breaths. It wasn’t so much the shoulder that had bothered him. He had set his own before, so someone else’s was a mild experience by comparison. It was everything else. The feel of bone crashing against bone, the queasy wobbling of a limb out of place, both things too familiar from another time, another place. He could feel the heat of the smoldering explosion on his skin.

And, truth be told, he hadn’t wanted to stay for Tim. Bruce wasn’t the one meant to stay. With his sons, he would have known instinctively what to offer. He didn’t know that for Tim. Didn’t want to know. Let Leslie dry his tears. Let Leslie hold him, if that’s what he needed. Not Bruce. That wasn’t something he could—_should_—offer.

So instead Bruce had stood in the dark hallway and shuddered and waited until a grim-faced Leslie emerged with Tim, his face blotchy from crying and his arm tucked into a sling. She had handed him the boy along with instructions that Bruce made only mechanical note of. One problem was solved, at least for the moment, but the next loomed.

They hadn’t spoken on the walk back to the car, and now Tim sat slumped against the passenger door, asleep. Had he been alone, Bruce would have taken out his anger on the roads of Gotham, punishing himself through the asphalt and the squeal of the tires. But Tim was asleep, and he was injured, so Bruce drove with a lead foot but a steady hand. His glove creaked again against the steering wheel.

It was possible that Tim was faking to avoid talking, which was just fine with Bruce. Nothing productive could come out of Bruce’s mouth with the fire still burning in his chest. He felt like a dragon, steam and sulfur curling from his nostrils with every breath.

Bruce pulled into the Cave, turned off the car, and got out with a slam of the driver’s door. Tim was already sitting up. Definitely faking. Bruce had stalked several paces away before he realized Tim had not gotten out of the car.

He stopped with a repressed snarl and returned to the passenger side.

“Why are we here?” Tim asked through the window. There was a crease from the seatbelt against his cheek and his hair was flaring wildly to one side. He looked about the Cave as if he expected something vile to jump out at him.

“You owe Alfred an apology.”

One problem at a time.

Tim’s face fell further, but he nodded and slowly crawled from the Batmobile. Bruce had him sit and wait while Bruce peeled himself from the suit and ducked into the showers. He would have taken longer if he could have, if only to let the frigid water slough some of the anger off his skin, but he was still boiling when he reemerged.

Alfred met them in the study, waiting with hands clasped behind his back. Tim shuffled forward, eyes downcast.

“‘M sorry, Alfred.”

Alfred opened his mouth, but Bruce cut him off. “For what?”

Apologies required a clear recitation of the offense and a request for forgiveness. Alfred has taught him that, and Bruce would not let it slip just because Alfred felt sorry for the boy.

“For deceiving you.” Tim’s voice was no more than a whisper. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

Bruce opened his mouth again, but this time he was the one cut off.

“My boy, I will always worry.” Alfred bent creaking knees and rested a gentle hand atop Tim’s hair. “Lying to me, to us, will only worry us more. Do you understand?”

Tim bobbed his head in a jerky, uneven nod. “I really am sorry.”

“I know, lad.” Alfred’s thumb stroked the crown of the boy’s head.

Being sorry wasn’t good enough. Tim needed to understand why—But Alfred was eyeing Bruce steadily and gave him a small, firm shake of the head above Tim’s line of sight. Bruce scowled.

Tim let out a shaky breath and seemed to gather himself up. “I think the local is starting to wear off,” he admitted. “I better head home.”

“Home?” Alfred and Bruce were twin echoes, one surprised, the other tense.

Bruce stepped forward and caught Tim by the good elbow. “You’re staying here tonight. Walk.”

“But—”

“_Walk._”

Tim walked.

Bruce led him through the Manor and up the stairs. Down the long hall, three of the doors were closed. One was Bruce’s room. Bruce chose an open door near enough to his own that he would be able to hear passing footsteps in the hall or rustling on the outer wall. He chose a door away from the other two closed doors.

“This is a guest room,” he explained as he led Tim in. “This is where you’ll stay.”

Tim had halted in the doorway and looked about with the wary uncertainty of a cat. “Really, Bruce, I can—”

“Do you think,” Bruce asked slowly, “that now is the best time to argue with me?”

“No, sir,” was returned in a whisper.

There was an empty glass on the bedside table. Bruce took it into the bathroom and filled it from the sink, then returned it to the table with two of the white pills from the bottle Leslie had provided. 

“Take those before bed.”

Bruce stopped in front of Tim. He was choking on feelings that carried no words. Any of the words he did have were not safe to say. Lips pressed together tightly, he reached out and scraped a lingering strip of adhesive from the soft skin next to Tim’s eye. 

“Breakfast will be served in the kitchen. My room is three doors down on the right. Goodnight.”

He was gone before Tim could reply.

Bruce barely slept. Thoughts chased one after the other in a dragged garland of misery. Every time he thought himself settled, a memory from the day would rise again, like a campfire stirred into waking. It was a miserable, endless night.

At least he’d had plenty of time to think before Tim came downstairs.

“Oh.”

Bruce folded down the top edge of his morning paper at the noise. Tim stood in the doorway, bleary-eyed and rumpled, weight balanced on one foot like he had been about to back out of the room. His cheeks flushed an uncomfortable red.

“I thought you’d be at work,” Tim explained.

“It’s Saturday.”

“Oh.”

Bruce waited. Tim didn’t move. Bruce relented.

“Sit.”

Tim sat.

“How’s your arm?”

Tim licked his lips and considered the question. “Better. Doesn’t hurt as much.”

Two days. Two full days of that pain, alone in that house.

Some of Bruce’s thoughts must have shown on his face, because Tim rushed to add, “I’m not lying. It really does feel better.”

Bruce had set aside his newspaper. He pushed the bowl of fruit slices within Tim’s reach, followed by the plate of bagels.

“How did you sleep?”

Tim gave a half shrug. “Fine. I mean, good. The pillows are different from the ones at home, so I had a hard time getting them stacked the way Leslie said to.”

Tim would have been miserable without the proper support for his shoulder. Bruce frowned. “Why didn’t you ask for help?”

Another shrug as Tim snagged a bagel. “I didn’t want to wake Alfred, and I wasn’t really sure where his room was, anyways.”

Alfred. When Bruce’s door was right down the hall.

Bruce sighed and reached across the table to pluck away the bagel Tim had been one-handedly massacring. “This can’t be a pattern,” he warned.

Tim was already nodding. “I know. I really am sorry. I won’t lie again, I promise.”

Bruce bit back his first words, silent as he cut open the bagel neatly and began spreading the cream cheese. “That, but I meant not asking for help.”

“It was okay, Bruce,” Tim rushed to assure him. “The pillows weren’t right, but I still slept.”

“It’s not—“ Bruce stifled the urge to sigh again. “It’s not just the pillows. You lied because you didn’t want to ask for help.”

“I didn’t think I needed to ask for help,” Tim corrected.

“Well, you did.” The words came out sharper than Bruce intended. He swallowed and pushed back the readied bagel.

There was a mulish slant to Tim’s mouth now. He slumped back in his chair, unslung arm twitching like it wanted to cross petulantly before remembering its partner was unavailable. He reminded Bruce of another stubborn little boy, and it made his chest hurt.

“Eat your breakfast.” Bruce reached for his newspaper again, intent on ending the conversation for now. He froze when Tim spoke.

“I don’t like cream cheese.”

Bruce stared at the bagel heaped with cream cheese. He had slathered it on without thinking, spreading a thick layer to the very edge, muscle memory taking control while he spoke. Tim only ate bagels with butter. He knew that. He’d forgotten. He—it was—he used to—

Bruce stood abruptly and left the room. He had fallen so low, to be rescued by a child, but he had not fallen so far that he would cry in front of Tim.

He went for a run, until he couldn’t breathe without wheezing and the sweat had stripped his ears clean of tears. He bottled up the mess, ruthlessly compacting and shelving the feeling deep behind his ribs. He would explode again later, he knew, but he had bought himself some time. The problems still waited.

The kitchen was empty when Bruce returned. The dishes had been washed and sat drying, the food put out of sight. He couldn’t hear Tim in the house, which wasn’t unusual. Even before his training, the boy had walked like a ghost.

Bruce found Alfred in the laundry room, his lips pressed into a straight, unyielding line as he snapped clothes right way out.

“Where’s Tim?”

“He has gone home.” Alfred’s voice crackled like the tip of a whip. 

“You let him—“

“He was very insistent,” Alfred said. There were barbs in the whip, biting into Bruce’s flank. “Somehow he had gotten the impression that it was what you wanted, and you were not around to say otherwise.”

Bruce dragged his fingers through his hair. “No, it’s not what I wanted.” 

“Is it not?” Bruce made no claims to sainthood, but the precise wounds of Alfred’s clipped words felt like a martyrdom.

“_No._ Alfred—“

“Then what is it you want?”

He wanted—

He wanted so many impossible things.

“I want to know he’s safe,” Bruce said at last. “I want to know that he’s being cared for.”

“Timothy?”

_Yes, of course, who else?_ Bruce nearly snapped, but. But.

“That child worships the ground you walk on.” Alfred set a folded shirt atop the pile and turned to fully face Bruce. “He does not know his own value. Little ones seldom do, and him less than most. But if you show him, he will believe you.”

Too clumsy. Too small. Too young. Too raw and untrained. Too much of a risk. Too much of a liability. Too much of a burden. Bruce had said all those things at first. He had been right. And he had been wrong. And none of those pertained to Tim, only to Robin.

Tim was… Tim… was…

_He’s the wrong one._

Bruce closed his eyes as Alfred rested a tissue-paper hand against his cheek. “You have such a large heart, my boy. And you’re only hurting yourself by keeping it under lock and key.”

It was that heart that thumped against the inside of Bruce’s ribs as he stood on the Drakes’ front steps. He had known what he must do and had gone with the grim determination of a soldier going to war. What must be done must be done. But it wasn’t until he stood there, staring blankly at the garish walnut lacquer door, that he wondered what he would do if Tim didn’t answer.

There was a long pause as his knock, and then the ring of the bell, echoed through the empty house. Then a shadow appeared, blurry and in distinct, in the stained glass inset. The door opened.

Tim stared at Bruce. Bruce stared at Tim. He half-expected some sort of jab, stinging but warranted, about his use of the front door instead of the bedroom window, but none came.

“I’m not supposed to let people in,” Tim said at last, even as he stepped back and out of the doorway.

“No one?” Bruce asked as he crossed the threshold. Did he truly stay alone, then? What had he said, until next Friday? And how long had the Drakes been gone before now?

Bruce could have answered these questions himself with the right inquiry, he realized with a start. Or even by looking at past surveillance of the driveway to see when the car had left. But he hadn’t. He hadn’t wanted to know.

“The housekeeper has her own key. She’s here on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

The interior was immaculate, despite it being Saturday. Gaudy and overdone, reeking of new money and little taste, but immaculate. It looked like a show home. Bruce considered stepping out of his shoes and leaving them by the door, but Tim was already moving on.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Tim asked over his shoulder. It was a distancing question, the kind asked by a bored customer service representative or Alfred when he was feeling snippish. 

Bruce followed, shoes quieter than Tim’s bare feet. The boy was noisier here, Bruce noticed, less likely to perch on the balls of his feet, though he was still whisper soft. Only when they passed from hall to kitchen did his feet give off a soft _thack thack thack_ against the linoleum.

“I came to take you back to the Manor.” The whole walk from the Manor to the Drake estate to plumb his well of words, and these were the meagre offerings he had to give.

“I’m alright.” The expected excuse came automatically, given by a little old man in boy form who grimaced as he reached to gather papers scattered across the counter.

_You’re not._ “It doesn’t matter,” Bruce said instead. “You shouldn’t be here alone.”

“Why not?” Tim wouldn’t look at him, and Bruce found himself orbiting the kitchen slowly to step into his focus.

“Because you’re a child.”

Tim’s nostrils flared, as if he were exhaling an angry sigh or an aborted laugh. “I’ve always been a child.”

_It’s never bothered you before._ The words didn’t have to be spoken to land the blow.

Bruce looked around the kitchen, floundering for what to say, what to do. Alfred would know, but he was no Alfred. He couldn’t think of an angle that wouldn’t be so hypocritical it would blunt the effectiveness.

“Do you like being here, alone?” he asked at last.

A one-shouldered shrug from Tim. “I’m used to it.”

_There._ There was no mistaking the raw longing that passed across Tim’s face. No child wanted to be ignored or forgotten, even if temporarily. (And it had to be temporary, it had to be.)

“You didn’t have to leave.” Bruce’s mouth was dry, the palms of his hands sweaty even inside his pants pockets.

“I… You were upset.” The skin between Tim’s brows was pinched, worry and concern making him look far too young and far too old as his hand slowed its tidying.

Bruce’s breath caught, the gnarled truth knotting tight at the top of his throat. There were things he could not say, would never be able to say. The grief ran too deep and too swift to risk releasing. Instead, after a moment’s battle, he settled on an alternative truth.

“That… happens. Sometimes.” A late-delivered surprise package. A dogeared page. Shoes abandoned in the hall. A bagel prepared for someone who wasn’t there. Bruce never knew what would grab his ankles and heave. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Tim looked down, teeth worrying his lower lip, then over at his bandaged shoulder. “And this wasn’t yours. No, don’t.” Bruce was already shaking his head and Tim began to shake his own right back.

“Seriously. I’m really, _really_ sorry about trying to hide it, okay?” Tim swallowed hard and pushed through the way his voice strained and cracked. “Really. But I’m not sorry I caught you. That’s… It’s… I mean, that’s what I’m supposed to _do_. I save you so you can save everyone else. That’s what sidekicks are for.”

They were too far from the Cave, too far from the security Bruce had built for himself to have this kind of conversation. But they were too many months into whatever this was not to have it.

“I’ve never had a sidekick and I don’t want one now,” Bruce said severely and watched as Tim began to crumple. “But partners save each other.”

Wide blue eyes flashed up at him, and for just a moment, there was a different face staring at him in this unfamiliar kitchen, a face flushed and hopeful and brimming with tentative wonder. And then he was gone. It wouldn’t be the same, but then, it never was.

Bruce cleared his throat. “Get what you need for the weekend. We can come back for school things tomorrow night.”

Tim considered, throat bobbing, then nodded. “I just gotta grab a bag,” he said and abandoned with a huff the mess of papers he had been trying to scoop one-handedly. “Could you—? I really do have homework. I was thinking maybe Alfred could...”

“We’ll take a look at it over lunch,” Bruce cut in gently as he gathered the scattered packets into order.

“Really?” Tim asked, on the verge of breathless. “You and me?”

“I think I can handle basic algebra,” Bruce teased, or tried to. When Tim still hovered uncertainly, he reminded, “Partners.”

Tim’s face brightened further, and it was like the sun rising. “Partners,” he confirmed, then took off running for his room.


End file.
